They Were Children: A Collection of Hunger Games One-Shots
by Rain Adams
Summary: Effie dressed normally. Cato never got to reveal his feelings for Clove. Foxface never got to say goodbye to the one person that really mattered. A collection of one-shots based off The Hunger Games trilogy. These are the stories of the tributes, victors and people in the Capitol that were never told. All are from different POVs besides Katniss's and Peeta's.
1. Foxface: The Girl Who Fought

**Disclaimer: This is a work of fanfiction using the characters in the _Hunger Games_ world that belongs and is trademarked by Suzanne Collins. These characters were created and are owned by Suzanne Collins and I do not claim ownership over them or the _Hunger Games_ world. Thank you.**

More Like a Tiger Anyways

That was it. Only four of us left. Katniss. Peeta. Cato. Me. I hope Cato and Katniss have it out, then we'll hopefully just leave nature to take care of Peeta. I'm not stupid, but I'm not...the confronting type either. It's easy to pick out Peeta in the forest despite his, and it hurts me to admit this about my opponent, impressive ability to camouflage himself. But I've still seen past the masks, and I've seen him, I've seen the injuries he's sustained. I can only hope neglecting them will finish him off. I evade, not attack. If I killed Peeta, Katniss would surely avenge him by killing me. Same situation if I killed Katniss. I mean regardless of his wounds, Peeta is still twice my size. He'd only need to lift me up and smash my head against something and I'd be done for. And then Cato...if I killed Cato, that would strike up a chance for Peeta and Katniss both to get outta the arena because of the rule change. It looks like I'm just not allowed to win! But if it came down to a finale, the four of us stationed against each other, I'd be the one with blood on my hands. The other three don't know what I can bring when I need to. I know I'm clever, I know how to strategize and move evasively, but I know I can also kill if I'm left in that position.

However, right now the only thing I need is food. Food, food, food. If I can't find food, I'm a goner. I don't have to worry about the other tributes; I'm too "sly and elusive" I suppose. I've never been in contact with any of them, I work alone. Isolated. Just like it is at home.

 _Home._

The word breaks something inside, cracking it, dismembering it. _We are all just children that want to go home._ I have to swallow the sob that threatens to come up; I can't let my district see this. See my calm, independent demeanor suddenly shatter at _one, damn word._ No. That's not how you win The Hunger Games.

Control, control, control. That's all this is. Where were my thoughts at? Home? No, food! This godforsaken arena is keeping me from surviving. It couldn't have been a fruit forest or a bread desert! It _had_ to be the woods, where the only food is small rabbits and plants. I'm left struggling with only a knife, and the backpack I got at the feast.(This contained little food that I gobbled down certainly within five seconds.) But now I was left starving with a small chance of survival. The thought almost makes me laugh. And to think, ha, that I _thought_ I had a chance! I really did, I swear I did.

My stomach was shrinking and I needed to find something to eat. Who knows what could—oh! Whoa! Wait—what did I...OH! This was Katniss's and Peeta's food pile! Cheese, rolls, apples and berries! Salvation! I started picking away at the cheese. I take only small amounts that they won't notice are missing, like I did when I invaded the Career's camp; I only take a small amount to live, not enough to provoke any suspicion. If I could only figure out a way to assure myself that the remaining three tributes were goners...

I'm so wrapped up in my thoughts of victory that I don't take notice of how many berries I've shoved in my mouth. They seem a bit familiar...oh what does it really matter? If Peeta and Katniss were all prepared to eat them themselves, I'm sure they're safe to eat As the berries are making their way down my throat, I begin to feel a slight pressure in my stomach. My vision begins to blur, like a thousand, tiny, black dots are enclosing around my pupils.. I stop eating and stumble back. The pressure in my stomach has increased to extreme pain now and I'm clutching my stomach to keep my intestines inside that I think are falling out. I feel like I'm inhaling blood and my throat is burning. I've made my way away from the food pile and lay on the ground. It's only minutes, but the pain lasts an eternity before the swelling feeling in my neck starts to cease and the blood-vomit-air-oh-God-whatever-it-is stops erupting from my loosening stomach.

Everything is faint.

What's left of my body aches like I took a shower in broken glass. So close...I could've won, won the whole thing. My district, I only know of a few victors from District Five. I will not be one of them. I know that this was a slightly better way to die than to come face-to-face with Cato or Katniss or Peeta. No doubt if I were killed by them it would've been extremely brutal. Bloody.

And I can't let my district see me like that. I won't let them see my mutilated body being lifted into the hovercraft. I won't let my older brother see me die that way. My brother, who whispered soothing words of love and encouragement to me before I left for the Capitol. My parents never said goodbye to me. It was just me and my brother. He's the one who taught me about plants, showed me weeds and flowers and berries, played hide-and-seek with me and danced with me when I was little. In a way, he's the one who prepared me for the Games. The one who taught me how to hide and survive.

"Just disappear, make everyone forget about you. Hide, steal, make _no_ alliances! And you'll come out fine, you'll be our district's victor." His voice rings in my ears as we said goodbye. Then he pulled me close and kissed my forehead. "You're already my victor, Idabelle." He whispers quietly as a waterfall of tears roll down his face. I hug him tightly, not trusting myself to say anything without breaking down myself.

Vaguely, I feel a tear in the corner of my eye as the memory fades away.

My brother.

When I was little, during one game of hide-and-seek, I had hid behind an old cabinet in our basement. It took him nearly an hour to find me, and when he was close enough, I jumped out and tackled him. He let me tackle him really, for I was only about seven, and his thirteen-year-old boy body would've crushed me in an instant.

"Whoa there tiger!" He laughed. God, I missed his laugh, pure and innocent. He hauled me up on his shoulders, his red hair tickling my exposed legs. He had very dark hair, the red emerging out to be more of a midnight ruby in contrast to my pumpkin-head.

He looked at me then, in only the way a brother looks at a sister. With protection, with hope, with certainty. The look of someone that'll protect me from my first asshole boyfriend, someone who'll get on my nerves so much and who I'll annoy to death, someone who'll be there, be my best friend when I need someone.

He hugged me tightly then, kissing my cheek. "I promise you Idabelle, you'll be okay. You will. I won't let them take you. I'll show up to the reaping in a dress, wig and makeup and volunteer for you if you're called. If that's what it takes. If that's what it takes to keep you safe, little sister. Please...don't waste these next five years. Right now you're safe, they can't touch you...but you won't have that security forever."

"Rawr!" I had pathetically replied, giggling the way a damn seven-year-old giggles.

"That's right, little tiger." My brother laughed, holding me close.

I'm so pissed at myself right now as I lay _dying_. These were the berries Katniss and Peeta collected. I _know_ the damn _Girl on Fire_ was smarter than this.

That left Peeta. Peeta. Peeta collected the berries, Peeta killed me. In the last few moments I have, a groan of frustration and anger slips my lips. That boy from District Twelve! Peeta! Oh, God he killed me, he did that. Oh...I'll kill him. I can feel my hatred level rising, and the only thing I can think of is how I'm going to make Peeta feel so...much...pain. I know I'll get him back. I'll get Katniss, too. I've played the quiet, sly and cunning girl so far but no more! Now, I will kill Peeta. And the last thing I see is the small dribble of blood pouring from my mouth, and my last thought it that I'm going to make Peeta bleed from the inside out and I'll tear the triumphant grin I know he'll be wearing tonight when my picture appears in the sky right off his face. My rage had no limit, no equal, I wanted to go home, I _needed_ to. For my brother, for my district. It's all I have left, but now they'll never know my fury. Never see that I _can_ be a fighter.

But...I made it to the top four remaining.

I think a harsh laugh escapes me, but I'm not sure. Perhaps I'm already dead.

That's something. Top four. That's...something.

I will be remembered.

Not as Foxface, not as what the other tributes see me as.

But as the girl who fought.

Foxes are forgotten. Sly. Cunning. Elusive.

Everything I was thought to be, but never was.

Tigers are not forgotten.

Another laugh.

My brother always said I was more like a tiger anyways.


	2. Cato: The Boy Who Stayed

Last Light

My Clove.

 _Mine._

She's dying. She's dead.

I know, but I don't want to believe it. I _won't._

I cradle her crushed head in my lap, spear in one hand, her hair in my other.

"Clove...Clove, come on. Wake up, wake up. Please. Clove!" I whimper, refusing to let tears fall at first, but now they do once the truth that she's dead hits me hard. The moment I saw her on the ground, well, my heart stopped, but now it's disintegrating, slowly burning away from a fire I know can't be stopped. It spreads, and it fuels the small embers that made a home in my lungs, heart, brain, _everything,_ until there's an insurmountable forest fire raging inside of me, destroying everything in its path.

That path of destruction only intensifies when Clove's cannon fires, and the wind of an approaching hovercraft freezes the back of my neck and exposed hands.

"No! No! No, you're not taking her away from me!" I shout into empty air, still holding Clove close and tight to me, sobbing harder. They can't do this, they can't just...just _steal_ her away.

 _I love her._

The hovercraft drifts closer, probably waiting for me to leave so they can collect her body. I won't let them; I'll stay here until the Gamemakers kill me on the spot if I have to. All my thoughts seem to swarm together as I recall the last moment I saw Clove really believe we had a chance, racing, the desire to win set deep in her eyes without any chance of being removed.

 _We both lazily look up as an announcement starts, both searching for the source of the voice in hope it'll give us some relief, some reassurance that this nightmare_ can _end, that there is still a world outside of the Games. Deafeningly, Claudius Templesmith's loud and resonant voice soon overtakes the entire arena._

 _"_ _Attention tributes, attention. The regulations requiring a single victor have been suspended. From now on, two victors may be crowned if both originate from the same district. This will be the only announcement."_

 _I've never seen a brighter look dominate Clove's features._

 _Hope. So much hope._

 _She turns to me from her crouch by the lake. "Cato," she whispers, "Cato, we can do it. This is our chance, this is—this is what we've been waiting for. We can go home." And then she begins laughing, a little manically, sorting through all her knives to find the perfect one for the remaining four tributes. I'm happy with hysteria myself. Clove and I, me and Clove, we can go home. We're the strongest, we're a team._

 _We can make it._

 _We gather up the supplies we have left after someone—I'd assume it was Katniss, we found the arrow buried deep within the remains—blew up our stash, leaving us with what we only carried with us at the time, which was not much. Weapons and a small supply of food._

 _We need food, the only thing Clove's been able to hunt are small reptiles that prove to be inedible anyway._

 _"_ _Cato?" Clove inquires as we noisily march around the forest, switching roles of leading every so often._

 _"_ _What?" I ask looking back at her. It was very seldom that we actually communicated during the Games besides asking where we should camp or who to kill._

 _"_ _When did you know?" Clove's taken it upon herself to deem it practicing time, and effortlessly heaves a knife into a nearby tree, wedging it perfectly in the splintered wood._

 _"_ _Know what?" As Clove reached out to retrieve her knife, I threw my spear only inches above her head, locking it firmly in the tree as well. She let out a little gasp of wonder, not fear, Clove never showed fear, but amusement was evident in her eyes. Violence always amused her, the sick little vixen._

 _I sauntered up behind her, towering over her small frame. She's always been a little thing, petite but strong. She looked up curiously as I reached over her, momentarily encapsulating her against the tree between my arms. I smile down at her reassuringly, knowing what she was thinking._

 _I allow my hand to linger across her arm as I pull my spear from the tree, resting my fingers on her shoulders, the best I can offer at comfort. For a moment, I consider leaning in and kissing her, but push that thought away once I realize how many cameras are watching. Besides, Peeta's supposed to be the Lover Boy, not me._

 _"_ _You know," she said teasingly, "that you wanted to compete?"_

 _All caresses and playful tactics ceased, and I gripped the spear with more force than was necessary, which was exactly the effect Clove was going for. She smiled sinisterly. It was well known that District Two were the closest to the Capitol, and therefore bred more victors. We were trained for it, desired it. While the other districts cowered in the corners of their homes, awaiting the day of the Reaping, those in Two obtained an insatiable need for it._

 _But we never stopped to really look at what we wanted. We were children, all of us, and every year we just wanted to go home like the rest. The Games, and our advantage in them, have dictated what we believed to be inhuman, now makes it what we think we desire most._

 _"_ _When I was twelve, I suppose." I answer finally, looking anywhere but Clove's demanding eyes. "That was when I knew I was really ready. When my name first went in and I thought...I thought that's all it took. A name, and I could do it. I could kill them all." I reminisce harshly._

 _And then Clove looks at me with such elation and sacrilege, I almost don't know which one is worse._

 _"_ _I was eight when I knew," she huffed proudly, chipping away at the tree. "I've always had a...passion for destroying things, and at home that was never approved of." She laughed, mocking her life and yet, disregarding it as well. "And I thought, hey, I can do this. I_ want _to do this. I wanna be someplace where killing is accepted, encouraged, admired..." The smile drops from her lips, the same way it did after we made camp the night of tracking The Girl on Fire. "I never got that at home."_

 _Monotone. Dead. Remembering something she wishes she never saw._

 _"_ _I was blamed for_ everything _at home...just because_ I _was the one with the talent,_ I _was the one who could defend herself. My sister never could, and looked what happened to her in the Games!"_

 _I'm amazed, if not sagely disturbed at everything Clove can feel at once, at how quickly her memories can distort her and blur her until there's nothing but a sadistic virago. I've learned more about Clove in the Games than I ever have being in school with her, talking with her, training with her. In an instant, she's been arrogant, repulsed, exuberant and dead._

 _All in an instant._

 _The Games do that._

 _I remember Clove's sister. Rose. She was thirteen with she got reaped into the 66_ _th_ _Hunger Games. Pretty girl, didn't last very long. She had no muscle, a cheerleader-type girl I suppose. Had her arms ripped off, bled to death. Clove was seven at the time._

 _Clove turned to the sky suddenly, addressing no one but the world outside our cage, and starts screaming._

 _"_ _You hear that mom? Huh? Rose never made it this far! YOU THOUGHT I COULDN'T DO IT. YOU_ ALWAYS _THOUGHT I WAS THE WEIRD ONE. WELLLOOKATMENOW!" I don't know if she's on the verge of tears or laughing. She has her knife poised to throw at nothing but what's above, and she's dancing around in a fidgety manner, shrieking and garbling out words faster than a rapid heartbeat, just needing to get her moment of recognition._

 _"_ _Look...at...me...now." She growled slowly and quietly, the way a murderer would whisper to their victim before killing them. Clove knew all the cameras were on her, on this fiery, burning girl of fifteen, aching to let the world know what she could do._

 _I knew then that I was truly in love with her._

But I've loved her before then, too. Since, what, since I was nine? Ten? I was always a...persistent child, insisting we go do this, or imploring we go do that. It was never quiet at my house when I was around. The first time I met her, a tough little sixth grader in school who managed to grow breasts at the age of ten, I thought she was annoying as hell, but I had forced my father to put me in her class nonetheless. Then over the years, I saw her—the real Clove. The Clove that took up knife-throwing because her sister assiduously cut her finger with a knife when they were little. The Clove that would find a way to get anything she wanted, including the last piece of cake at her cousin's wedding, whose daughter also died in the Games. The same Games as Rose. I got to see Clove at her best and worst, both at ten years old when the worst time for her was leaving the clothing store, and at fourteen years old when the worst time was when she got jumped by some older guys for being _weird,_ as she put it.

The hovercraft comes closer, and soon a robotic voice broadcasts its displeasure at my staying. But I will not leave. I will not leave the girl who had come so close to winning with me.

 _"_ _Attention tributes, attention. Commencing at sunrise, there will be a feast tomorrow at the Cornucopia. This will be no ordinary occasion. Each of you need something desperately, and we plan to be generous hosts."_

 _Clove is a deer caught in headlights, only instead of the imminent panic that she's going to be run over, she gracefully frolics over the car kills the driver in the process._

 _"_ _Armor." She whispers ardently._

 _I shake my head. "No, weapons."_

 _She grunts in exasperation and hits my arm. "No, Cato! Armor! Protection! There's six of us left, we've been wandering for a few days now, Katniss is probably nursing Peeta, that redheaded girl just teeters her way around, and Thresh is—no offence—a damn steamroller ready to kill anyone in his path; the numbers are dwindling down, Cato, the Gamemakers are going to draw us all together sooner or later, and this is it." Her eyes are filled with light, with—dammit there's this word again—hope._

 _"_ _I'm stronger than Thresh. I'm stronger than any of them." I say, even though even I can hear the uncertainty in my tone._

 _Clove just shakes her head like she's talking to a stubborn child that won't leave the grocery store, like looking at herself at ten years old, and seeing this, I'm struck with the odd notion of what Clove would be like as a mother. The thought makes me shiver._

 _"_ _I wanna kill the girl. Katniss."_

 _"_ _What? Clove, we're not—"_

 _"_ _Dammit Cato! We're going,_ I'm _going, you're gonna watch my back, and when Miss Fire-Dress arrives, I'm killing her, got it?"_

 _"_ _Clove, I can't let you—"_

 _"_ _Yes you can."_

 _"_ _Quit interrupting me!"_

 _"_ _No! We can kill the singles easily, it's District Twelve that's—"_

 _Then I kissed her._

 _I allowed a moment of vulnerability, of impatience, weakness. I let them see the side of me that wasn't supposed to exist, the side that Peeta was supposed to be playing. The hopeless boy in love._

 _Well fuck that. I loved Clove._

 _When I pulled away, agonizingly carefully, afraid I'd hurt her, Clove just stared at me and for the first time, an emotion I had never seen crossed her face._

 _Shock._

 _She whispered my name, but our moment was over. We will be killed if anymore stolen kisses passed. "You can have her," I whispered, running my thumbs over her cheeks, "if you give them a show."_

 _She nodded, the way a seductive sadist nods, "Yes. I will."_

 _"_ _I don't think it'll be a problem. Not after your previous outburst." I laugh, pulling away from her. She laughs with me. A normal laugh. A girl's laugh._

I feel my tears dry as I am warned one last time to step away from the body. That was the last time I had heard her laugh normally, like she wasn't a tribute fighting for her life, _knowing_ since she was eight years old that she would be fighting today.

Fine.

If I can't have her, I can avenge her.

I press a kiss to her forehead, leaning down to her ear and whispering, "I'll kill them, Clove. I'll kill for her, I'll win. _I promise."_ And after a minute, "I love you, Clove." And as if my words held some magic to them, I watch as the last light drain from her features, like she was alive that whole time, waiting for my promise. Now that it was made, she could die peacefully.

But she would never be peaceful. Not at home, not now.

I look one last time at her, trying to memorize her, yet trying to forget her, too, in her dead state.

My Clove.

I move out of the way finally, and the hovercraft urgently clamps around her body and pulls her up. In some inane last-second decision, something that'll probably get me killed later by the Gamemakers, by my own district, maybe even by Clove's ghost as they all watch me make the oldest and probably most frowned upon gesture in Panem.

I softly kiss my three middle fingers, and hold them up to the sky where the hovercraft vanishes. I _know_ the cameras are on me as I make District Twelve's gesture. My own district has one similar, where we hold our index finger over our heart and raise it with another hand in ours as a sign of respect, but that gesture is so long forgotten, so asinine; this gesture I know is a symbol of much more coming from such a poor district. Love, admiration, promises. It was much more fitting for Clove.

Even now, I can feel her breathing down my neck, hating me, for making such an obscene signal at her death, but I also think, deep down, she appreciates it, knows that even though it's a disapproved act, it's a powerful one.

And my love for Clove was nothing but powerful.

And I was the boy who stayed.

I was in love with the girl who never missed.


	3. Clove: The Girl Who Never Missed

But I Bleed

Even as the knife made its way into my skin, I didn't cry out. I'd learned that at a very young age—about three—to never cry, that is. Rose, being the little bitch that she is, had taken the liberty to diligently plunge our butter knife into my hand at breakfast.

But I didn't cry out.

She smirked smugly, knowing I wouldn't make a peep, and therefore ensuring she would never get in trouble, and pulled the knife out, a bleeding hole in its place between my ring and middle finger. However, I did feel the tears starting to itch and scrape their way out of my eyes, but I didn't let any tears fall either. No screaming, no crying. Conceal emotion.

But I bled.

No words were exchanged, there never was between us, as I got up and marched over to the sink to clean the cut. Mother came marching in a few minutes later, papers and such in her hands.

"Rose! Clove! You've both got training to do! Rose: You need to work on dexterity, being more agile and quick, hiding will win the Games just as easily as slaughtering will. And Clove, you need..." Her words evaporate once she catches sight of my hand, and I know what's coming. "My goodness Clove, why can't you be more _careful?"_ Mother explodes, coming over and roughly seizing the towel from me and scrubbing at the cut until it bleeds even more, soaking the towel pink. Her face contorts into a mash of anger and resentment, the way it always does whenever Rose—oh, excuse me—whenever _I_ do something wrong. I glare at Rose over mother's shoulder. Bitch, bitch, bitch.

"You're too destructive, Clove. Too. Damn. Destructive." With each word, mother rubs harder at the cut, and I shamefully found myself biting my lip to keep from crying. Don't cry, don't cry, don't cry.

I continued to bleed.

Mother threw the towel down and groaned in frustration, breathing heavy and twitching her eye. Oh, no, it was getting bad. "What's _wrong_ with you, Clove?" She hissed through clenched teeth, tearing at the countertop with her fingers; a habit she picked up from father whenever she got nervous or irritable. I didn't answer, just stared at her, making sure to wipe my face clean of any real emotion. This silence extended out until my mother couldn't take it anymore, and punched me right in my nose. I didn't cry out, but I bled, holding my nose gently. This made Rose smile. Bitch bitch don't cry bitch don't bitch don't cry...

"We have a week until the Reaping. Pull your acts together." Mother says curtly, turning on her heel and marching back to the living room, the bloody towel in hand. I looked at Rose, sweet, sweet, thirteen-year-old Rose, to find her grinning like a smug little—

 _"—_ _Bitch!"_

Oh, no. Father's home.

"Rosaline Decain!" Devyn, District Two's escort, called jovially with the over exaggerated Capitol grace and elegance, though to his credit, he was dressed more normally than some others in the Capitol. I looked from the sidelines as my sister proudly made her way to the stage, no one volunteering to take her place. I smiled. _Good._ Even if I was old enough, I wouldn't volunteer for her. _Bitch, bitch, bitch._ The mantra had been my lullaby for a week now since her little knife stunt. Incidentally, it only made me more enthralled with such ideas—knives, that is. The male tribute is called—Jim? Jon? I missed it and really didn't care—and before I know it, there it is, the scene laid out for me: My sister is going into the 66th Hunger Games. I was seven now, and next year, I knew I would be ready.

My family and I watched the Games obsessively. Hey, get this: my cousin's daughter—Annilise—got reaped from District One this year. Oh, how interesting it'll be. My sister and her. Both family. Family against family. How... _fun._ The first day thirteen tributes got killed, and with the arena being an enormous glacier with numerous and precise cut-out entryways, creating a complicated maze of networks, four more died the next day. My sister was one of those four.

I remember seeing it, too. This year's Games were a mix of blood and ice, snow and flesh. Seeing a human body crystalize overnight...it's really something actually. It was...really something to see my sister try and nurse the empty sockets where her arms should've been. They got ripped off the first day, and after bleeding out, she froze. To see a human body freeze, the slick ice slowly encasing every inch of flesh...is really fucking _something._ All of this took place within the hour; the nefarious act scarred my mother. I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy.

We stopped watching the Games after that. No need to. Annilise had died the first day, and now my sister was gone. But really, who's to blame? The little bitch _(bitch bitch bitchbitch)_ had absolutely no strength whatsoever. But I did, and when the time came, I would win.

I spent my days either looking out the window or throwing the knives in my kitchen. I'd gotten real good in the past year, and I take great pride in that. I _never_ missed. Every animal, every target, I got it. I knew I was ready.

The hard thing about being ready to win the Games at eight is having to wait four years until you can actually compete. I just practiced more.

Then I met him.

Of course a fucking guy has to come into the story.

I was ten, entering sixth grade. I'd kill myself if I had to go through another year of school. Starting puberty in fifth grade didn't help, and now at ten I had pert breasts that all the boys stared at. Everyone that stared I sent glares at my first day of sixth grade. I didn't make any friends.

But there was one guy that didn't stare at the parts of the body that made me uncomfortable, oh no, this guy—a little shit to be honest—was an eye contact type of guy. And by God, were his eyes _stunning._ That blue, sweet nightlock it could put the sky and ocean and nightlocks to shame. It made everything blue seem irrelevant, dirty, worthless. His blue was unmatchable. I suddenly felt very worthless myself in his presence, my plain brown eyes against his...pathetic.

I'll tell you it didn't stay this way, not at all. When he first talked to me, I pushed all insecurities aside, and talked to him the way I felt. The way I felt when I was practicing.

"Hello." He smiled.

I nodded without looking at him, focusing, concentrating...

"You've been on that same page for four minutes now." The smirk was evident in his voice. I risked a glance. No, no, nope. Damn it, can't look at those eyes.

"Well, I'd be further but someone is distracting me." I said in a dead tone.

"Well, who is it? I'll beat them up for you." No one's ever offered to do that before. "I'm Cato, by the way. It'd be polite to introduce yourself." Cocky, aren't we?

"Clove."

"Like the plant?"

"Yes, genius, like the plant." I reply in the same voice, fearing that if I show the slightest ounce of interest he'll jump at the chance to sleep with me, like every other guy seems to have done.

"Well aren't you a mouthy little thing?" He chuckled. I could practically feel his eyes burning through my skull; even the slightest glance and I'd surely be dead from his gaze. I stared intensely at the page in my book, ripping the corner of the page with my fingernail.

Then these two fucking enormous blue orbs are sweltering my vision and shattering my soul. Cato is right. In. Front. Of. Me. We were almost touching noses. "Cloooove," he sang, "why are you ignoring me?"

"I prefer no friends." I barely whispered, a large portion of my hair falling in my face, obscuring the page entirely.

"Well, that's no way to start your first day of school, is it?"

"Everyone has different ways to start off the school year." I replied, suddenly becoming sleepy.

"Well, how about you start off yours with a new friend?" And let me tell you, his voice is so damn... _annoying_ that I actually consider this. I think about it; only us, the two of us. If I were to be friends with this guy, I wanted him _to myself._ But the look in his eyes says he's not ready to do that. I roughly push him away and retreat to the bathroom.

The next time it happened like that with him, the next time those... _feelings_ arose, I was ready to kill someone. Kill someone for real, which is not the perfect position to be in when meeting with a boy like Cato, but it was the way he found me that day. All around my house there were holes. In the ceiling, counters, floor, carpet, furniture; it wasn't like I didn't try. I really, truly did, but in a world of voices and dark corners, of slaughtered children and faded minds, the knives inside me won.

Every time.

Father came home that day to find me chewing the pillow on our couch. He didn't understand, but I _would_ kill someone if I could not get control, starting with him. I remember I clutched that pillow so tight, I bit it to keep from screaming; I was a natural disaster. I was the girl who fucked everything up.

"Where's your mother?" He asked gruffly, not taking my condition into account. I only shivered and vaguely nodded my head towards her bedroom.

"I want an answer, bitch!" He slapped me. Okay. It's happened before. Father ventured down the hall leading to their bedroom, muttering curses the whole way. I screamed into the cushion. I could hear my parents' screams through the thin walls and doors; they echoed and bounced off the walls in unison, creating a cacophony of harmonious squawks. Some nights, it became my lullaby. The screaming, that is. It even got to the point where I felt adamantly left out if I didn't join in on the screaming.

My parents stormed out of the bedroom, my father chasing my mother, shouting, insulting, hitting. _(One more hit, get used to the pain, the pain, get usedtothepainonemore)_

The next thing that happened didn't bother me, and it was in that moment that I knew I had truly become the desensitized young woman my mother feared I was, but the act I performed was so sudden, so entirely carried out without hesitation, that I will always believe there will be more to what I was than just a desensitized freak.

The knife is in my hand, I roughly throw the pillow to the floor, and stomp up to my bickering parents. They both turn to look at my briefly before continuing their banter. Then I drive the knife into my father's throat. There is ten feet between us.

I remember mother looked at me like I was dirt; uninteresting and worthless, deserving of being stepped on and beaten. I remember thinking that I was nothing in that moment. But I wanted more. I wanted to know the feeling of attention, of being talked about and known. Not just this stick where there were a million more exactly like me just waiting to become a branch in a tall tree. Then, if it ever came to it, and if I ever became lucky, maybe a tree trunk or something that was used for something. Used for helping others. Like people who like to walk by trees and lean against them or use them for shade. I'd be wanted then.

"How—what—Clove—I." My mother stuttered, but I only stood there, blank. I never missed. "Did you just _throw_ that knife? All the way...and he..."

"Yes, mother." I answered softly, looking away even as the monster that beat me bled to death. Inside, I bled too. "I did it. Do you see now? See what I can do?" I asked hopefully, completely forgetting the dead man before me.

"What's wrong with you?" She gasped, shaking tremendously. "There's something wrong with you!" She stated firmly, pointing one long, bloody finger at me. I didn't respond, I just came closer to her retreating figure.

"At least I would actually have a chance! Rose never had a chance! Look at her—YOU GET YOUR ASS BACK HERE MOTHER AND LOOK AT HER!" Mother stopped, but she would not look at me, so I looked at her. I covered the rejection and shame I felt with a mask of hate, though there was nothing to conceal the tears. "You look at me and you tell me that I couldn't do it. Tell me I couldn't win." When all I got was silence in response, I continued. Now that it was out, I might as well make it good. I might as well make her remember me. "You tell me I don't have it in me. Look me in the eye and say it! Because I can do it, you know I can! You've seen all I can do, all I have done..." The way my voice drifts is unintentional, and only with shaking hands and heaving sobs do I finish it. I whisper, enunciating each word.

"You... _hate..._ me. Everything I've accomplished, every target, every attack; it's all just bullshit to you."

"Yes," mother hissed suddenly, finally whirling around to look at me. "I did, I do. Your work disgusts me, Clove! Your knife-throwing? Heh, what is it? Huh! _You_ look _me_ in the eye and tell me what it really is you're doing!"

"I'm protecting myself! I'm training for when I'm in the Games! Because I'm gonna win, mother. I'm gonna win, unlike Rose!"

"You're only killing yourself, Clove!" She exploded, her tears matching mine. _(Like mother, like daughter. Like mother like daughter likemotherlikedaughter)_ "I lost one child to the Games! You honestly think I'm willing to lose another! One who does—does—this—" she wildly gestured to the knives in the kitchen and in my pocket, to the holes in the walls and ceilings, "—for a hobby?"

"You'll never support me." I whisper, realization setting in. A whole web of deception consumes me, eating away at every hesitant nerve I have until I'm completely stolen away by what there really is. What's been there all along. "Even when I show you, prove to you that I can do it, you won't accept it. You'll never accept that I can win the Games!"

"Because you're killing people to win it, Clove." She says softly, finally broken. "I didn't raise a killer. I didn't raise Rose to be a killer—"

"And she's dead!"

"But she died honorably." My mother sighed, but all I can focus on is the tension, the way the house creaks, and the darkness that has spread outside. "Do what you want, I don't care, Clove. I really don't. Go into the Games if you want, but when you get stabbed or mauled or burned to death, and they show your lifeless body on the screen...I won't be crying."

None of my knives could have pierced me as badly as that statement did. The sharpest point, the longest sword, the hottest ember; none of it will ever hurt me as much as my mother did just now.

"Your death won't be remembered." That was the last thing she said that night.

I found Cato about an hour later. Well, actually he found me, angrily strolling through the city. Masonry—the building of towers and homes in a rurally populated district. How fitting. I'd only brought a few knives with me, as comfort things I suppose. I was headed towards our town's blacksmith when he caught me. I had been ready to kill someone.

"Hey, Clove!" Cato yelled, dissenting himself from a group of jocks that openly eyed me. My hand tightened on the handle of a knife.

"What?" I spat. We'd been friends for a year now, and I didn't know how lightly he'd take to me telling him I just killed my father at eleven years old.

"What's got you all pissy?" He asked, very quickly matching my stride as we walked behind buildings and into alleys.

"Nothing." I muttered. "Just had a bad training day."

He didn't notice the lie, and immediately jumped at the chance to talk about fighting. "OH! Me too, my old man's been giving me heavier and heavier swords so that I'll be ready for combat and still be quick. Only thing is my neighbor, you know the boy with brown hair, with the freckle on his ass? Well, when I practice with him, I—"

"I just killed my father." I whispered.

Cato stopped walking and I did, too. We were in a crowded area, so he pulled me to the entrance of one of the markets. "You what?"

"I just killed my father." I repeated, bringing one of my knives out and hugging it awkwardly. "In there." I point in the general direction of my home, where my mother was, probably crying and planning my death.

When Cato didn't say anything, I was ready to go off on the same rant I gave my mother, about how I was ready to compete in the Games, have been ready for three years, but he finally answered.

"Was it hard?"

That took me by surprise. Cato and I had always been content with the idea of competing in the Games one day, but the fact that we would be actually _killing_ people was never brought up.

"Not as hard...as I thought it would be." I settled on saying, but then I thought about it more. Killing the man that beat us our whole lives wasn't hard at all, and I didn't even hate him as much as I hated some other people in the district. If I could kill my father without worry, how difficult could it ultimately be to kill in the Games? Especially when it's for fame, approval, money and admiration.

"Not hard at all." I confessed as Cato listened intently. "It was almost a thrill." I turned to him excitedly. "And when we're on screen doing it, I don't think it'll be any problem at all Cato! I think—"

"Whoa, whoa, slow down Clove. That's still a year away, if that." He paused for a minute and licked his lips. He did that when he was worried about something. "Are you gonna volunteer next year?" He asked. Truthfully, I was ready to compete the minute I was eligible, but the way Cato phrases the question makes me wonder. Cato was only a year older than me, making him qualified to compete in the Games this year, while I had to wait until next year. Still, he did not compete this year. A fourteen-year-old got reaped and an eighteen-year-old volunteered.

"I don't...I don't think so." He starts to smile in a sick way, like he _knew_ I'd say that, like he was waiting for that, so I quickly try to defend myself. "I mean if I got reaped, of course I'd go without a doubt, but it just seems to me that every tribute is at least fourteen or fifteen. Our district trains for _years_ at those schools on the other side of the city, by your house, but I don't want to just jump right into it just yet. I want to—"

"Clove," he cuts me off and embraces me with one arm, "I don't care; I do _not_ think you're weak at all. I know you could win next year if you really wanted. I just...wanted to make sure I knew when you'd be competing."

Was it just me, or was Cato, _the_ smart-ass mouthy Cato that pissed me off most of the time, concerned for me? I vaguely returned the hug No. That was silly.

But that was when it happened. For the second time in my life, I felt a tiny...freeze at Cato's close proximity. Just like in sixth grade. It was never warm with Cato, I never felt a spark or electric shock like other girls felt when they were with the _guy of their dreams—sick—_ I always felt a numb freeze pass over me with Cato. That's how I knew he was different.

I nauseatingly associate his delectable coldness with my sister's coldness. The coldness that helped kill her. Two types of cold; one for murder and one for love.

"So," Cato smiled when he pulled away, and I was momentarily shocked at the loss of complete coldness and security I felt from him, "your first kill, huh?" He chuckled. "Knew you were feisty, but not this soon."

I laughed easily along with him, amused at the consequences in which this was being brought up. "You've always known about my knife-throwing. Thought I'd really put it to the test." I smirked and waved my knife in his face tauntingly, afraid to admit the real reason for killing my father. Cato would only think I was weak then. Especially when I mentioned the fact that I was _crying._ Ugh, what a fucking baby I was only hours ago.

"Yes, I know. It's cause your sister cut you, right?"

I nodded, hiding the pain at the mention of that bitch. _(BITCHBITCH BITCH BITCHNO)_ "Yeah, when we were real little. It just...stuck then." I remember.

He laughed some more. Cato laughed a lot, he always has. It was like he found everything in the world amusing; the killings, the Games, the people, the little kids and the adults. It was part of the reason I loved having him for a friend.

"And how about your cousin's wedding? D'ya use a knife then?"

I smiled at the memory of nine-year-old me, slipping under dresses and between legs at my cousin's wedding, desperate for the last piece of cake—vanilla with buttercream frosting, my absolute _favorite,_ I'd kill for it—and using my knives to surreptitiously snip and slice at the beautiful clothing and anklets women wore until I made it to the table and took the last piece. I ate it in the bathroom. I had a thing for bathrooms when I was younger.

"Yeah, just to distract people."

"Of course." We're not longer in front of the store, instead our conversation lead us to the back of the blacksmith. The sound of sizzling embers and metal hammering could be heard from inside. Cato licked his lips again, and I simply waited for him to say what was bugging him.

"Here." He mumbled and pushed something in my hands before turning his back to me. I blinked once, then looked at what he had placed between my fingers. It was a ring, tiny and probably cheap, but pretty nonetheless with one large gem surrounded by four smaller, baby ones.

"What's this?" I demanded in confusion.

"I believe the term people use these days is _gift."_

"What's it for?" I could feel the sweat gathering at uncomfortable places, my throat was wet, like sucky-dry-worried wet, and my knives itched to be held.

Cato shrugged, never being one to show extreme affection. An occasional hug or longing glance or even kiss on the cheek. Nothing sentimental. "Just...for you. Don't girls like jewelry?"

"Yes, yes. It's wonderful Cato, I just don't know what it's for."

"It's for us." He said gruffly, obviously pissed at having to explain his intentions. He quickly pulled his left hand out to reveal a matching ring on his ring finger. It was a little bigger to fit his boyish hands. He nodded impatiently towards me and my ring, before turning away from me again. It took me a full minute to realize he wouldn't look at me because he was blushing. I smiled knowing I had that control over him.

I put the ring on.

Three years later, when I was fourteen and Cato was fifteen, I got raped. It wasn't pleasant, nothing involving domination and being overpowered is, but I'll admit that the guys showed mercy when they only made it last a few minutes. Nothing happened, but I had bled. There were five of them, and they were all older than me. I walked to Cato's.

"CLOVE." He exclaimed when I knocked on the door. I would not show weakness, not here, not in front of him, not now.

 _Not ever._

But I did.

But I bled. I cried. Cato saw everything. He saw... _me._ The me I've tried to kill since I was seven and my sister stabbed me. The me I hated because she was weak. The me I replaced with knives, with sadistic indifference and sarcastic sweetness. The me I buried when I was eight with the me that would compete in the Games. She resurfaced.

"What happened?" Though Cato obviously knew had happened when he saw I had nothing covering the bottom half of me. He gave me a pair of his boxers. They were cold just like him.

"I was weird." I said. One tear escaped and I pinched my arms.

"What the fuck does that mean?"

"T-they knew. My knives, my talent." I laughed. I've noticed I've been laughing a lot more lately, regardless of what it was about. I looked Cato right in the eyes, the eyes that first bewitched me. They were colder now, the fifteen-year-old boy before me had grown colder every year I knew him. More sadistic, _(like you, Clove like you, you are cold you are dangerous likeyoulikeyou you)_ stronger, more prepared. He was practically _frozen,_ and I wouldn't change him at all.

"They know the meaning of winning, and I am it."

"Clove, you're not going to compete this year, are you?" He asked carefully in reference to the reaping in a few days.

I shook my head. "No, no. Not yet. Next year, Cato. I will compete next year. I know it. This year was my last test, everything was. Since I was eight. I will—I'll win next year, Cato." I leaned in closer. "I never miss."

"I know."

Some bitch whose name I can't remember got reaped the next year.

I volunteered.

Cato got reaped. No one volunteered for him.

This is not how it was supposed to work.

 _No matter,_ I told myself. I will win, I will win regardless of Cato competing against me. If no one else kills him, I will. He was cold anyway.

On the train, he approaches me.

"You will win." Is all he says.

I nod. "I know I will." We're both silent at the predetermined acknowledgement of Cato's death. His eyes are cold, but they are still blue. Still fresh.

 _Like water lilies,_ I think sadly. They always have been. Blue, not the blue of the sky or ocean, but the blue of something wonderful. Something with dangerous potential. I can't look away. The blue that captured me back in sixth grade, as a stupid ten-year-old. The blue that held a kind of pretty kindness; not sweet kindness or anything, but the type a killer uses.

But deeper than that, looking past that blue, what was there? What was there _really?_ Beneath that, there was a child. A sob so unexpected that even Cato jumps in alarm leaves me, but it will be the last sob I ever let out. _We were all children, wanting to go home at the end of the day._

"Cato," I almost scream, and I shake as I slowly hold his hand in mine. Then my voice lowers to a whisper. _"You will win."_

He shakes his head in denial. "No, you will."

"I'm not like you. You will kill, and you will be good. You will stay. I am too weak for that."

"No, no you're not Clove. You can't—you can't spell Clove without love."

"That was the stupidest cliché fucking thing you've ever..." I breathe. _(Breathe breathebreathe bitchbitch bitch like mother like daughter likemotherdaughter cold cold cold pain painpain)_ "You will win."

"We'll win together." He promises. For an instant, it's there again. For the third time. The cold I've become addicted to, and it pulls me in. Pulls me to him. To the boy who will stay, to the boy with the blue eyes.

Later that night, in my personal room, I slide the small ring on my middle finger; if I fidget enough with it, I can conceal the scar perfectly. The scar that started everything, started to make me into what I am today. I smile.

I am the girl who never missed.


	4. Effie: The Girl Who Hid

The Stories You Hear Drinking Coffee on a Saturday Morning

 _The 67_ _th_ _Hunger Games_

Coffee.

I need coffee. Black, steaming, refreshing, energizing coffee. I can go on and on forever about the particular delights of such a wonderful drink, and I literally mean _forever._ But right now, my little forever's going to end if I don't get some damn coffee in my system.

I wake up in a soft bed, surrounded by a strong pair of arms that make me feel invincible, untouchable, _safe._

I roll over on my side and poke the man's cheek. He opens his eyes lazily, a sleepy smile crawling onto his face, and pulls me closer for a short, chaste kiss. "Morning Effie." He whispers.

"Morning Devyn." I whisper back. He takes my left hand and grasps it tightly, and runs his other hand through my hair soothingly. I need to dye it again; the blonde is beginning to fade, and my natural brown hair is showing in the roots. Brown. Coffee. That's right, I needed coffee. I make a move out of bed to get some ready, but Devyn stops me with a hand on my shoulder.

"You're not getting your skin dyed today with Sprinklet, are you?" He asks playfully. Oh sweet nightlock, don't get me started on that girl. Don't get me wrong, I love Sprinklet to death, we've been friends since practically birth, but you can tell she was _definitely_ raised in the Capitol. Lavender skin, (which, okay, does look rather resplendent on her) silver eyebrows, and wings tattooed on her back, which she proudly showed off every day with the absence of a shirt. She was a sight indeed.

"Goodness, no!" I exclaim, leaning over to kiss him lightly. "I need to dye my hair again." I say.

He laughs. "I don't know, I like the whole two-colors thing you got going on. No one else does it."

"No one else is remotely close to being as normal as us." I laugh with him. It's true, it's always been true, and a little discouraging. While I was a proud and arrant Capitol citizen, I stood out a bit. Sure, with the ever-changing fashion statements and the amount of plastic surgery one obtains to look the way they do, it was hard not to make a few alterations to myself, including the constantly changing hair and outfits and nails, but everything else? Tattoos, skin coloring, piercings, surgery—I saw no point to it. About the most I've even done is dyed my hair rainbow colored, and that freaked Devyn out for weeks.

I wash my face, get dressed (in a sparkling sky-blue mermaid dress with a million caterpillar jewels attached) and head out to the city, which is teeming with life and boisterous citizens. Shops and restaurants salons line the streets, everyone talks with overused flamboyance and smiles. Welcome to the Capitol.

"Effie! Oh, _darling!"_ Sprinklet greets me at the hair salon, air-kissing my cheeks as we give each other a girlish embrace. "Can you just not _wait_ for the Games this year? The Reaping is just around the corner, hardly here yet, but I _already_ have my bets set on Two."

Sprinklet was a Sponsor, responsible for sending gifts to the tributes during the Games through smooth-talking mentors and flirtatious persuasions. She was a very expensive Sponsor.

"Well!" She clapped her hands together loudly. "There is just _so_ much to do today! We have to get our hair done, and our nails, oh! And have you seen the whiskers people have started getting?"

"I can't say that I have, though I _know_ they're a big thing." I reply, discreetly cringing at the idea of having _whiskers_ sewn into your face.

"Oh! We'll have to visit Florals Rosie later, she just got tigers' whiskers," Sprinklet settled her hand over her heart, completely moved by the thought of the transformation, "oh, it was to _die_ for. Well, let's get started!" For the next four hours, Sprinklet and I travel the Capitol, landing ourselves in two different restaurants, stuffing ourselves full, three clothing shops, four salons, and one shoe store.

"So," Sprinklet begins as we sat down in a coffee shop, oh sweet nightlock I needed this, this coffee is _heavenly,_ "how are you and Devyn?" I smile just at the mention of his name. Devyn was the current escort for District Two, the lucky little shit. We met the day of the reaping for the 59th Hunger Games; he had pulled the names of two twelve-year-olds, something rarely seen at a Game, which provoked vast enthusiasm and applaud from the crowd, only to be revoked once a fifteen-year-old and seventeen-year-old volunteered.

 _"_ _Crazy day, yes?" I smirked brightly once Devyn—at the time he was a stranger, but a damn cute one—returned to the Capitol that day._

 _He laughed, and I couldn't help thinking it was like listening to roses blooming. It always smells like roses in the Capitol._

 _"_ _Oh, does District Two_ love _its tributes." He shook his head, sending a wave of coffee-colored hair tinted green crashing over his eyes, which had been modified to look violet in the right light. "What about you...?"_

 _"_ _Oh! My manners must have disappeared today, I am so sorry! I am Effie." I smile. "I'm a body piercer." I say the last line with a hint of shame. Being a body piercer practically means getting to see the genitals of every citizen of the Capitol every single day since no one wants to pierce something normal like an ear or nose. It's always the genitals or the butt or the chest or nipples. Over the years, I've learned to grow accustomed to it, sometimes even finding myself disturbingly pleased with the job, but one particular experience with a woman that never shaved down there set me off a bit for awhile._

 _Devyn nods casually, not noticing my discomfort or lack of a proper job. "Must be fun." There's a brandy in his hand and he takes a sip before continuing, looking over at my gawking gaze as I immediately turn to look at the city, blushing deeply. "I'll let you in on something," he says cautiously, probably knowing as well as me that we're always watched, "you're about the most interesting looking person I've ever seen at my time in the Capitol." He smiles._

 _"_ _Oh...thank you, though I'm sure there are_ far _more interesting women out there." I say humbly._

 _"_ _No, no, no," he waggles his finger, obviously a little tipsy, "you're different than them. You don't follow the rules of fashion, you're..._ unique. _Oh, I'm worse than you. Devyn. Devyn Brown._ "

 _And then I understand what he's trying to say. 'Interesting' was a substitute for 'normal.' I wasn't dressed like a complete freak like the rest of the citizens, I had curled bark-colored hair and no body alterations, much like someone in the Districts. Speaking of approval for someone so plain like me was not considered very loyal, but it's a compliment._

 _I smile appreciatively, glad I finally found someone that understood where I was coming from. "Well, you're definitely the star of the fashion show, too." I say with my best attempt at a flirty smile and a wink. Because he is, at least in my eyes. Aside from his green hair—which isn't even really that green, it's more like a sprinkle of turquoise—Devyn looks pretty normal. I see the beginning of a tattoo peeking out from his button-up shirt, but other than that? Clear skin, no piercings, no coloring, normally clothed in a shirt and jeans. Devyn was a very nice man to look at._

 _"_ _How long have you been an escort?" I ask._

 _"_ _Three years." Devyn replies, finishing his drink and setting the glass down on a table beside him._

 _"_ _Do you like the job?"_

 _"_ _Yeah! I mean, it's great to choose the tributes, especially from a District that's so compliant with the Games." He says too cheerfully. I nod, understanding his secret message._

 _It was anything but an honor to be an escort. It was tortuous. Many years in a row I've seen escorts executed for planning some sort of cheating shipment of names so that they can specifically select the tribute they want from a district. Knowing the life of two children rests in your hands, and more than likely will die because of you, it can bring escorts to madness. The districts are homes to millions of children, they're just children, and they just want to go home at the end of the Games._

 _Tangled up in my own thoughts, I don't register when Devyn leans over and presses his mouth to mine, the strong scent of alcohol invading my mouth. I'm shocked to say the least, then giddy with excitement, then disappointed and repulsed when Devyn drops over into my lap, passed out. The next morning he's so hungover, he makes Haymitch—the only victor from District Twelve and a total drunk—look good._

"We're good," I say, raising my voice only a small pitch so it fits the Capitol accent perfectly.

"That's all I get? Come on Effie dear! Tell me more! Have you two said the three little words yet?" Sprinklet jumps up and down in her chair, giggling and squirming with anticipation. What? I love you? Yes, we've said that at least a million times to each other. Devyn said it first, which is totally-absolutely-entirely romantic, and he wasn't even drunk.

"Well," I take a deep breath, keeping what was bottled up under lock and key, about to be let out in the open, "Devyn's been going to a lot of jewelry stores lately, it hasn't really been that much of a—"

I'm cut off by a high-pitched squeal only dolphins or five-year-old girls can mimic. "EFFIE TRINKET HE'S GOING TO PROPOSE TO YOU!" Sprinklet howls, drawing the attention of many other patrons in the coffee shop, who only join in on the announcement. It's not often we get weddings here in the Capitol, mostly because no one here falls in enough love to want to get married or because the weddings we have are properly organized and planned; nothing spontaneous like Sprinklet's assumption. For the next hour, I'm left listening to Sprinklet go on and on about how I'll need to be turned into a fashion model. She lists how much makeup I'll need to purchase, how many stylists I'll need to meet with, how many different colors will need to be put in my hair! All of it is very overwhelming, especially with the lingering fact that I may be entirely wrong on all of this, and Devyn really has no intention of marrying me.

However, I overlook logic and think of fairytales. Fantasies. Dreams. _This could happen,_ I realize. _I could be getting married to the love of my life._

I'm so giddy with excitement as I make my way home that I stop several people I usually would try hard to avoid and compliment them to no end. A girl with orange skin and purple lips and piercings? Oh darling you look simply stunning! A man walking two blue sheep and a suit made of the remains of the world's largest disco ball? My, my, I've absolutely _adore_ what you've done with the clothes! It goes on and on until I'm too lost in happy-land to notice anyone else.

 _"_ _You know who you look like? That girl from that really old movie. The actress was something like Amanda...something. Side-fry? Seyfried! Amanda Seyfriend, and it was a movie about mean girls. That was it! Mean Girls! You look like her. I think that movie got banned or something." Devyn commented lazily as we walked to the man-made lake surrounding the perimeter of the stations where the trains bring fresh tributes._

 _I looked at him funny. "Yeah?"_

 _"_ _Yeah. Only prettier. Your eyebrows are normal." He leaned in close, tickling my ear. "And your lips are_ far _more desirable." Then he kissed me again. He did that a lot. Pulling away, he grasped my hand, and we sat down to look at the sea. Cliché, but I really loved the guy._

 _"_ _Devyn?" I asked. He hummed in response, his head on top of mine as I lay against his chest, the freakish gems on my dress casting diamond shadows on his content face. "What do you think of it?"_

 _"_ _Of what?"_

 _"_ _You know...the Games."_

 _It's real quiet for a minute. Security usually doesn't extend beyond the outer limits of the President's Mansion, though we still have to be careful about revealing what we truly thought of the Capitol._

 _"_ _I think it'd be interesting to see the Capitol children reaped." He finally said. I shot up like a dead person roused me._

 _"_ _Devyn!" I gasped. He turned to me and shrugged._

 _"_ _What? Just a thought. Of course I know the districts are the enemy here, and the Games are a reminder of why we are the ones in power, but I just think it'd be entertaining to see Berlilth Witchsalt get her face eaten off." He laughed._

 _There._

 _He'd done it again. Covered up his obvious suspicion of the Capitol with something light-hearted and meaningless. Everyone got riled up and even aroused at the sight of a bloody death in the Games, it's like watching a horror movie to them. It's fake to them, the Capitol is so consumed with the blurred lines of reality and fantasy that they can't see the Games aren't played with actors and actresses._

 _Every year I try to think like they do. Like it's just a horror movies, prerecorded with fake blood and actors that are perfectly fine off-screen. I won't lie; I participate in the excitement, I cheer when two tributes have at it, I tear up when a favorite dies, like a character dying in a book. But then on the Victory Tours, seeing the families of the dead on screen...even that can't possibly be reenacted. That was real, and it makes everything else real, too._

 _A tear falls onto Devyn's sleeve, and I hastily wipe it away only to have him lift my chin and softly kiss me, no surprises, no tension, no hunger. Just reassurance._

 _That's all we need in the Games. In the Capitol. Something that was taken from the districts._

 _Reassurance._

I tear up again when I reach my house, bursting in the kitchen. "Devyn!" I call out. What I'm hoping this will accomplish, I have no idea. It's not like I can just waltz in and ask, 'Hey, are you planning on proposing to me?' But maybe seeing his face, the love in his eyes, that'll set me straight.

When I wander further in, towards the bedroom, and still find no Devyn, I panic just a tiny bit. A momentary loss of composure because my boyfriend may be gone and oh nightlock where is he what is this what is air _why is the house empty he doesn't work until theGameswhereisheohmy—_

Ringgggg!

I almost have a heart attack, clutching the hollow of my throat until I giggle nervously once I realize it's the phone. Strolling over, taking a quick glance in the bathroom as I pass—no Devyn, he would close the door anyways—I pick up the phone and answer with a polite "Hello?"

"Miss Trinket?"

"Speaking!"

"This is head Peacekeeper, Dalik, from the President's Mansion."

"Oh yes! Hello, what can I do for you?" I reply in my best Capitol accent.

"President Snow would like your attendance to a meeting with him at four o' clock sharp."

"Oh yes, I'll be right there. What for exactly?"

"Can't say. Good day Miss Trinket." And Dalik hung up. At first, I can't move. Any _meeting_ with Snow, be it with a victor, sponsor, tribute, Gamemaker or otherwise, cannot be good. We all know what we're supposed to do, we know our jobs and our roles as Capitol citizens while Snow sulks away in his mansion, only appearing for big events like the Games or announcements with a whole line of followers standing behind him, ready to kill anyone that questions the President. It's terrifying to think what he would want with me. And where the hell is Devyn?!

I waste away the hours until our meeting by searching more for Devyn, eating and ridding my face of any imperfect blemishes. When four o' clock rolls around, I head out the door, freshly dolled up, and make my way to the mansion.

However, I can't tell my feet to go where I want them to, taking several diversions and stopping to stammer out random sentences to strangers, the thought of losing Devyn disrupting any additional control I have.

I end up walking in the doors at 4:06, and actually greet Snow at 4:09. He sits in his chair, the scent of roses voraciously devouring me. I don't speak until spoken to, making sure to hide the slight tremor in my hands.

"You were not on time, Miss Trinket. I ask you to show up at a given time and place and you completely disregard it." There's no anger, not even disappointment, it's very calm and controlled, which only makes me more frightened.

"I'm very, very, very sorry President Snow. It will never happen again."

"I should hope not. Well, enough of that, it is one mistake." _One mistake is all it takes in the Capitol_ , I think. "Let this fault not affect what I'm about to tell you, for it will not change it. Miss Trinket, as you know, I am aware of every single citizen's whereabouts in my city, and I know you've spent the last couple years of your life as a body piercer."

"Oh, well yes I have. It's quite a lovely job, keeping up with the fashion and all." I reply enthusiastically.

He raises an eyebrow, and for some droll reason, his beard just starts to freak me out more and more. "Is it? Well, I'm very glad you're happy with it, but I would like you to know that I feel the need to...promote you to an escort for District Twelve." He says. I freeze.

"But what about the current one, Davine Flavora?" I ask, carefully wording my sentence so it doesn't sound like I'm contradicting him.

"Davine has had the most unfortunate of accidents, I'm afraid. I've watched you over the years, Effie," it's the firs time he's used my name, "and I feel that you would make a fine escort for such a poor district. Really, what harm can they do you? And more, what harm can you do them? Your job only lasts a few weeks out of the year, you go home when you're done, watch the Games, enjoy yourself with Devyn," oh nightlock he knows about Devyn, "there's really no better job." All this is said with a persuasiveness that suggests if I don't take the job, I will wind up dead.

The way Davine Flavora had her _unfortunate_ accident.

"Well, this is an honor President Snow! I—I'm unsure of what to say."

He laughs. Cold and bitter and vituperatively demeaning. "Now see, Effie, I think it'd be best if we not lie to each other right now. In case you were unaware, I can see you, every day, every waking moment. I see you and Devyn, how you disguise your disgust with laughing and joking, would you like to know how I know?"

Just then, the door opens, and two Peacekeepers—one of them smiles sadistically at me, and I have a feeling it's Dalik—drag in a bloodied and bruised Devyn.

"Devyn!" I shriek, my voice resembling Sprinklet's outburst at the coffee shop. I rush forwards to cradle him, but Dalik whips my hand away, leaving a burning gash.

"Effie, don't—just—don't." Devyn manages out. I turn back to Snow, who's as relaxed as a spa customer.

"I would appreciate those in my city do not badmouth me or my rules, Miss Trinket." Behind me, I hear the Peacekeepers force Devyn to his knees. "This job was the only way I could think you would...understand my ways."

I nod my head furiously, blonde locks obscuring my vision from the monster in front of me. "Yes, yes. I would like that job very much." Pleading for Devyn's life will only ensure it ends, so I say nothing about him.

"I know Miss Trinket."

And that's when I hear the gunshot.

The pain is almost unbearable, crawling out of the very essence of Hell and grasping me, torturing me. I spin around, forgetting the whip and Snow, to see Devyn's body— _my Devyn—_ laying in a semi-fetal position, a gun in Dalik's hand, and a small eye of dripping red from between Devyn's closed eyes. He's not breathing, like I really expected him to be after being shot.

"Well now, Miss Trinket, I take it you need no more...motivation to proceed into the Remake Center. Run along now." Snow makes a childish dismissing gesture, and his casualness about this only amplifies the flame that's engulfing my throat. The two Peacekeepers haul me away, the unnamed one showing some sympathy while Dalik stares straight ahead and grasps my arm too hard. My head lays in my hands as I continue crying, unable to stop.

I doll myself up, not needing to look at the magazines or TV to know how to look like part of the Capitol. For my first Games, I wear a voluminous magenta wig accompanied by a tiger-skinned pencil skirt and scintillating zebra V-neck. My skin is lightly tinted with silver blush so I sparkle like a star, so I shine, so I reflect.

The same way Devyn's blood glimmered and shined as it pooled around his body. Shot in broad daylight. My manicured fingernails dig into a pillow so I keep from crying.

During the 67th Hunger Games, as I stand there on stage, putting on the most cheerful and over-smiling face I can, Sprinklet's words ring in my head.

 _"_ _The Reaping is just around the corner, hardly here yet, but I already have my bets set on Two."_ I bet she never thought I'd be the one reaping the children. Hell, I bet she _wants_ my job. As much as I love her, grew up with her, I can't stop thinking that she is just like the rest of them, cut off from reality.

 _I love Sprinklet to death._ Another thought. But did I? Could I? Did I even know what that meant? Death had a whole new meaning now, especially since it was all in my hands who was going to die every year now. At least one child every year would die because of me, because of the name I choose today. I sob into my hand, concealing it as pure delight of being District Twelve's new escort, just needing to hear my screaming, needing to know that _I_ was alive.

Because I didn't feel alive. I felt dead, empty, the way the bed now felt at night without Devyn. 

_The 74_ _th_ _Hunger Games_

I reach in, swirling my hand around a bit, trying to mentally pick someone who had a chance even though I had no idea who I was picking. I couldn't take forever, so finally my hand landed on the corner of a slip of paper sticking out in the center of the ball. My fear is mistaken for excitement just like it is every year as I march back towards the center of the stage, and carefully unfold the paper.

"Primrose Everdeen." I speak loudly and cheerfully, channeling all my hatred towards the audience, changing it to pure eagerness.

It falters when I see the small twelve-year-old girl shakily step forward.

It doesn't falter a lot, I can't allow it, but my heart sinks to my stomach when I see her. So tiny, so fragile.

Maybe it's madness, I'm going to say it is, but the world seems to stop at the events that unfold. Another girl, older, perhaps sixteen or seventeen, rushing forwards. Crying, screaming to volunteer. I find my voice long enough to stammer out, "Lovely! But I believe there's a small matter of introducing the reaping winner and then asking for volunteers, and if one does come forth then we, um..." I trail off, unsure of what we did next in such a predicament. I went through three weeks of training when I first became an escort, and at the time I knew exactly what we were supposed to do.

But after seven years of being District Twelve's escort, not one person has ever volunteered, and who would?

Primrose is hysterically clawing the volunteer—an older sister? Cousin? Best friend?—screaming and begging her not to go. When she climbs the stairs, my admiration for her does not need to be faked. "Well, bravo! That's the spirit of the Games! What's your name?"

"Katniss Everdeen."

"I bet my buttons that was your sister. Don't want her to steal all the glory, do we? Come on, everybody! Let's give a big round of applause to our newest tribute!" I'm left clapping by myself up on the stage because the rest of District Twelve is raising their three middle fingers in the air. I'm not unfamiliar with this gesture, but I don't know its exact meaning either. All I know is that it's quieter than the stopping of a heart, than the fall of a snowflake, as the young girl before me is said goodbye to.

I clear my throat and continue, trying to break the tension. "What an exciting day! But more excitement to come! It's time to choose our boy tribute!" I choose a name, the name of someone who may die because I chose them.

"Peeta Mellark!" I call out.

And my heart sinks almost as low as the first time.

A boy, about Katniss's age, steps forward hesitantly. He has a childish face and handsome features, pallid and frightened. I almost can't do it. Do this.

I ask for volunteers, but no one steps forwards. Poor boy. Peeta and Katniss shake hands, and I avoid looking at them as something passes in that handshake—fear, disappointment, sympathy, the promise that they'll kill the other—I don't know, but it's too much. 

_The Third Quarter Quell_

I pace frantically about the train, muttering and ruffled. Our train on the Victory Tour has malfunctioned, causing at least an hour's delay. Everything my victors—you have no idea how relieved I am to say that, _my victors,_ the two I reaped, they are _alive—_ need to attend to, prepare for, it's all been disheveled and pushed back. What will President Snow say? What will he _do?_ It's bad enough Katniss did what she did last year in the Games, _now_ the Victory Tour is ruined, too!

I voice my concerns only to have Katniss tell me no one cared. No one cared if we were on time or not, if we were on schedule, if were got to where we needed to be at the given time. I involuntarily feel tears prick at my eyes as she storms from the room.

Katniss Everdeen just doesn't know, and how could she, living in District Twelve and all? Time is inevitable, essential, that's why we must plan for it, categorize it, _be on time._ An entire day's worth of scheduling can become screwed up! We will not arrive where we're supposed to be _at a given place and time!_ How in the world can Katniss not see that?!

That night, I blame myself over and over again for being so stingy. Katniss even came to apologize, though I knew it was fake, but I still appreciated her efforts. It really wasn't her fault, she was under pressure, and I _needed_ to attend to the schedule. It's just—I just—I've obtained this irrational fear of it, of...time. Because the last time I was not on time, the only man I loved died. I clutch my pillow so tight my knuckles turn white. I bit into my hand so hard to keep the screaming in that I draw blood.

 _Time._

What an incontestably _ugly_ word.

She was a beautiful bride. Well, fake bride.

I almost wanted to hit her for how beautiful she looked.

Maybe _I_ could've looked that beautiful had _I_ gotten a wedding day...

 _"_ _You promise Devyn?"_

 _"_ _Effie Trinket, my crazy cream puff—"_

 _"_ _Hey! Women don't like to be compared to something like a cream puff." I interrupt._

 _Devyn raises an eyebrow. "Why not?"_

 _"_ _Because they're fattening!"_

 _He laughs, pulls me closer and kisses the top of my head. "But you are like a cream puff; I can't never get enough of you."_

 _"_ _Okay, that was completely, undeniably corny. Be more romantic." I demand bossily._

 _"_ _Alright, alright: Effie Trinket, miss Princess Sweetness of the Capitol," I roll my eyes, "I can't promise you the world, Effie, but I can promise you you'll never feel alone in the world you live in now."_

 _"_ _That's a very big promise."_

 _"_ _I know." He whispered. It was quiet between us, comfortable, a few moments of talking about the Games, and how District Two has the entire Capitol wrapped around their finger, and who's to blame them? Even I will submit myself to admit that I had completely fallen for Brutus a while back, when he was as gorgeous as Finnick after winning his Games at fifteen._

 _"_ _Would you ever want kids?" Devyn asked out of nowhere. My breathing hitched, and a low pain made its way up my tummy._

 _"_ _Goodness, no! I would never..."But stopped because the idea had never actually occurred to me. A child, knowing me I'd probably raise it to be the prissiest and most pulchritudinous little brat ever._

 _"_ _Cause I want kids." Devyn's voice broke my thoughts. I looked up at him, my mouth hanging slightly open. Surely he can't mean...with me? I felt him shake his head. "Never mind, guess first things first, we probably should get married before kids." He smiled cheekily at me, winking._

 _"_ _I—what—I—you—"_

 _"_ _Speechless Effie?"_

 _"_ _I'm sorry, but you really should be more specific with your intentions." He laughed as my Capitol accent seeped out. "What is it you're asking?" I gasp out._

 _He leans my head on his shoulder and chuckles, the motion vibrating against my hair, which at the time was almost completely back to its original brown._

 _"_ _Nothing," he whispers, "just...you'd make the most beautiful bride in the world. Don't ever run off and get hitched with someone else; I want you to be_ my _bride." The last comment startles me, and I'm about to ask if he's proposing, but it's Devyn, and he never does anything half-ass. If he wanted to marry me, he'd do it the right way._

 _"_ _I'm no Princess Sweetness." I mumble, tired from the thoughts I have._

 _He laughs again. He does that a lot. Almost as much as he kisses me. "Of course not."_

The day of the 75th Hunger Games, Haymitch comes to my room. I'm stripped of makeup, but I still have my gold wig on and outrageous clothes. I sit very ungracefully with my knees pulled to my chin in an unmade bed. Every bed reminds me of Devyn, how...empty it is. I force a smile when Haymitch enters despite the putrid smell of alcohol emitting from his breath when he speaks.

"Katniss and Peeta wanted me to send their love and thanks." He says, obviously hungover. "He...they..." He burps, and I wrinkle my nose in disgust. "They wanted you to know that you were the best escort...and despite being an absolute naggy prude, they really, really appreciate all you've done." He seems to either think or become lost in his drunk daze for a minute.

"They'll be okay, Effie." And there's sincerity in that statement.

I nod my thanks and he disappears, stumbling down the hallway. I know we've...grown together, maybe not _friends,_ for I know how much Katniss hates the Capitol and everyone in it, but we were a team. All of us. And I had grown to care very much for them.

Now I was what I wanted to be, what I was envious of my whole life. I was the talk of the Capitol, I got the district with fire this year—literally. The district with the passion, the love story. And I could see it in Katniss's eyes when she first looked at me last year on the stage, helpless and desperate, the cold stare and judgmental glare; she thought I was nothing more but the Capitol's property. Their plaything, easily molded and sculpted to fit their preferences.

And I was, I realized later in my room that night, when the makeup was washed off and my wig was thrown across the room and I was in _comfy_ clothes. I am just a piece in their games. I got there by defying what they wanted. I lost Devyn doing it, I might as well have lost Sprinklet, and I became someone I was not.

My life itself had become the Games.

 _The Rebellion_

Believe it or not, the thing I regret the most in my life as a Capitol citizen, escort, and follower of Snow, is that I hid everything, and hiding will never prove to be useful. Granted, the Games required hiding, but sooner or later, they all had to come out and face one another.

But I was never in the Games, could never imagine being in them, being that strong.

No, I regret hiding my feelings, beliefs and wishes.

I regret allowing Devyn to die, and after my imprisonment, Katniss visited me. Promised me she was sorry, and gave me a protected seat to Snow's execution, which more or less turned out nice despite Katniss shooting Coin instead.

I regret not telling Devyn sooner that I loved him. I regret my insignificant moments with Sprinklet. I regret ever following the man that started the Games.

Many of the districts as well as the Capitol are destroyed, dead bodies of children and adults endlessly pile up. When I am allowed freedom to roam and create a home of my own, I visit my old home in the Capitol, which is practically nonexistent.

I visit every place Devyn was. The bathroom, our bedroom, the kitchen. In our bedroom, or what remains of it, I start digging and crying.

Among the rubble, I find a ring.

Shattered and dull.

I regret.

I regret that I denied for so long.

I want to forget.

And I am the girl who hid.


End file.
